


Hell is Murky

by buttercups3



Series: May Your Days be Porny and Bright [2]
Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: Bath Time, F/M, Hand Job, Masturbation, Prompt Fill, Shakespeare porn, Spoilers for S2E6 and E7, high!Bass
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-06
Updated: 2013-12-06
Packaged: 2018-01-03 15:10:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1071925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buttercups3/pseuds/buttercups3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bass wakes out of his death coma, and Rachel offers him the chance to get clean. That sounds so deep, and yet, this is smut, folks!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hell is Murky

**Author's Note:**

  * For [xyber116](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=xyber116).



> Quotes/title taken from Shakespeare's Macbeth:
> 
> * “A little water clears us of this deed” (2.2.65)  
> * "Out, damned spot! out, I say!—One: two: why, then, 'tis time to do't.—Hell is murky!” (5.1.30-1)
> 
> Ya’ll know how I love to make Bass an avid reader of Shakespeare. ;)
> 
> Prompter: xyber116  
> Prompt: How about a fic were Bass finally gets to take a bath?

“I prepared a bath for you, Bass,” Rachel announces sternly, rousing him with a brisk _slap_. It’s hard enough to sting and resonate in his teeth.

Her face swims and fades out of focus, brown splotches crowding out her electric blues eyes and pert, pink lips.

“Bass,” her voice asserts more urgently.

The tall, lean statue of Rachel rolls once, twice, into the periphery - a nauseating circus wheel; Bass turns his head and vomits. She has thought to perch a pail beneath his lips. He spits chunky bile. She dabs his mouth with a cloth.

“Well, when you feel up to it. But it’s hot now,” she gestures presumably in the direction of the tub.

Still hanging his face over the side of the bed, he hears her boots _clop, clop, clop_ in receding rhythm – then _click_. The door. 

It might take him one minute, it might take him an hour, but eventually he blunders out of bed – first one foot (at which he stares ponderously long) and then the other. He assumes they are flat on the ground – but down he goes – incognizant of the falling part, only aware of cheek to floor. Oddly, this doesn’t hurt in the slightest, but rather, wood transforms into fluffy, inviting pillow.

He raises himself onto forearms and begins army-crawling – Marine-crawling in his case, he muses proudly – toward the tin tub. Safer this way. He’s about to thread a leg up and into the steam, when he realizes he’s still got all his clothes on. Damn. This will be a challenge. After eons of struggle, his appendages hatch like baby chicks from their shells. Hilariously, Bass chortles aloud - or maybe not, it’s hard to tell – every part of his body that was clothed is pristine and pearly, while every bit that was exposed is coal-mine black.

For instance, his dick is lily white. _Hey, little guy._ It is good to see him again. I mean, it’s a fucking miracle Bass is alive. He gives his dick a friendly yank of greeting and decides it feels better than good. Of course, he _is_ on drugs. (It’s only later he’ll find out that Rachel has essentially Roofied the living snot out of him – also _hilarious_.) 

Still pulling on his dick, coaxing it deliciously toward erection, Bass starts migrating sections of body upward and over the lip of the tub. When he finally flops in with a whale-sized splash, he welcomes enormous relief and self-satisfaction. Then, his stomach drops. He’s not getting clean – why isn’t the black coming out? He thrashes, maybe even cries out. 

He can’t hear himself in his own head, but he must be making some sort of a commotion, because Rachel comes thundering back in and clasps his wild hands against her breasts, soft and now wet. Her nipples form peaks through the thin cotton of her shirt.

“Bass, what is it? What’s wrong?”

“I can’t get clean!” he blurts.

Rachel sighs heavily and squeezes her eyes shut, still craddling his hands. “On act five then?" she murmurs. "No water can clear you of your deeds.”

Bass swallows and tries to focus on the high cheekbones, the rosy blush there. His voice is suddenly hoarse, and he croaks, “Hell is murky, Rachel.”

Her eyes crack open, seemingly with great effort, as she reaches for a rag and begins to scrub Bass’ chest.

“What?" Bass inquires. "Didn’t think I knew Shakespeare? I’m not Miles. I can read.”

She _humphs_ to herself – a gentle laugh – and grinds the rough fabric into his ridges in lulling circles, working her way downward. To Bass’ utter surprise, she doesn’t stop when she reaches his lap. He gazes down to observe his cock rising brazenly – for how could a cock be bashful? – from the steaming water. She continues humming and runs her washcloth up and down its length, scrubbing it like a turkey in preparation for its big Thanksgiving show. 

Bass is dimly aware that he is moaning and then spasming violently forward into Rachel’s welcoming bosom. She holds his head against her chest with one hand, while the other continues to help him spend himself. Finally, she ushers him back into the rapidly cooling water. 

“Rachel?” he shivers, his execution mea culpa coming back in a rush. “Do you forgive me?”

Just one corner of her mouth turns up. “Now what could that possibly matter? Look to your own spot; I’ll look to mine.”


End file.
